Miracle
by The Girl on the Moor
Summary: To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. Sherlock/John


_To live in hearts we leave behind__  
><em>_Is not to die.__  
><em>_~Thomas Campbell, "Hallowed Ground"_

Outside rain patted lightly against the window, the ever beating rhythm of yet another drizzly day drifting through the air and stirring Doctor John Watson from his sleep.

He cracked open one tired eye and allowed consciousness to seep through his veins. For a moment everything was wonderful. The calming patter of droplets against glass, the warmness of his bed and the smell of Mrs Hudson's baking from down stairs.

At the start of everyday, each and every morning, for a brief moment when time didn't seem to exist, John simply was.

Outside birds sang, perched on braches of damp, dripping trees whilst children held their parents hands on their way to school and business men ran towards the tube station, praying to god they weren't late.

It was then, always then, it hit him. Hit him like a speeding bus that's breaks had been cut.

For a while his stomach would churn with the guilt of the brief lapse of memory. Guilty over the fact that he'd forgotten. How could he have _forgotten_ something so bloody important? Something that not only occupied his mind whilst he was awake but also caused nightmares to surge through his mind like a tidal wave.

_How could he forget that…?_

He sat up suddenly, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face in them. A thick, angry sob stabbed the air with a fierce pitch of self loathing.

How could he forget that Sherlock Holmes… His _best_ friend… Was…

_Dead._

He shook his head and sat up, resting his palms flat on the mattress and staring up at the ceiling.

_Come on Watson, get a hold of yourself. You survived a war, you can survive this._

He turned and peered out of the window. Now the rain, which not moments before had been so relaxing, appeared to be tormenting him. Making fun of his impromptu out burst. He growled and stood up, grabbing his cane and limping over to the curtains. He yanked them shut and wandered towards the bathroom in an attempt to do something slightly productive with his day off from work.

The warm water of the shower fell down his back as the doctor pressed her forehead against the cool, tiled wall. Thoughts of what he could perhaps do that day ran through his mind, and yet he knew exactly what he'd do. He'd do what he did whenever he had a day off. He sighed and turned the water off, stepping onto the bathroom rug and wrapping a towel around his waist.

He moved as he always did when he knew he had to face the day ahead. Defeated. Like a zombie. Shuffling forwards and letting his eyes stare at the carpet.

John had come to the conclusion that everything that was ever given to him of any worth would be torn from him like a rose from a thorn bush. Anything he cared for would be ripped from the mess that was his life.

He'd _wished_ for Sherlock Holmes, and it was only after his death he'd realised it. He'd hoped and prayed and just _begged _for something…. For someone to give his life some meaning. To make him smile upon waking up and look forward to the hours that lay ahead. Sherlock Holmes had been his miracle. The one thing that he thought he was lucky to have.

Then, as if by magic and very suddenly, the miracle was over. A dark cloud once more circled John's life.

_Just one more miracle… for me…_

221B Baker Street had remained almost the same as the day the detective had left. The violin stood against the arm chair that for three years had sat empty. The files had been tidied slightly but remained on the desk. The experiments had had to go, mostly because John was almost certain one of them was somehow making him extremely unwell. The place looked tidier but was still awaiting the arrival home of Sherlock.

An arrival that John knew would never happen, but still hoped for with every inch of him.

On his way downstairs he passed his friends old bedroom and silently peered through the open door. Sherlock had always left it open, as if every day he left so quickly the question of privacy never appeared in his mind.

The bed was made; the lamp had been off for three years, the books neatly piled next to clean lab equipment. It made John want to walk in and smash everything, crate a gigantic mess. Because that's what Sherlock was like. A gigantic, brilliant, unbelievable, fantastic, beautiful mess.

He sighed and turned straight ahead, gripping his cane tightly in his fist and slowly making his way downstairs.

There was a warm cup of tea on the table, Mrs Hudson must have heard him get out of the shower and brought it up for him. He smiled slightly and brought the mug to his lips. In the three years since the fall she'd become something of a mother to him. Not that he minded. His own father and mother had passed away many years ago and what with Harrys move to the country side it was nice to have someone he considered family so close.

He allowed himself to slump into his own armchair and stare at the one opposite him whilst sipping on his drink.

He could see him. Always. Just like this, every single day. Sat in the chair opposite, watching him with those determined, curious, marvellous eyes.

It had started not long after the funeral. He'd see the apparition his mind created looking out of the window or sat at the desk… Mostly it would be like this. The imagining of his best friend in his arm chair, watching him like he did so many times. John never spoke, he was so worried that speaking would break his train of thought and cause the image to evaporate. A Sherlock created by some deep, twisted, hurt part of his mind was better than no Sherlock at all.

When it had first begun John vaguely wondered if he was crazy, if perhaps recent events had finally caused him to snap. Maybe the best thing that could happen would be a straight jacket and a very comfy, padded white cell.

But no, he'd simply not told anyone about the whole seeing his dead best friend business and tried to carry on with his life. Beside, did it truly matter? If it gave him a brief few moments of happiness was he truly harming anyone?

Outside the rain fell still, puddles forming and reflecting the grey sky and dark clouds.

Their eyes never left one another as John slowly continued to drink his tea. He placed the cup down, the china clinking against the glass table.

And at that sound, very suddenly, he was gone. Sherlock was gone. And at once he found his mind once again clear and his heart heavy. Every time it was like losing him all over again.

He found himself very much alone.

He peered at the empty seat for a few minutes before allowing his eyes to shut. With a deep breath he got to his feet, grabbed his cane and headed towards the front door, grabbing his coat as he went.

* * *

><p>"<em>If Sherlock was here, right now, what would you say to him John?"<em>

"… _It doesn't need to be said."_

"_Why's that?"_

"_He knows. He always knows."_

"_We're very sorry John…"_

"_Thank you… It means a lot…"_

"_I remember when my husband died…"_

"_If there's anything we can do…"_

"_See you around mate…""_

"_We're here if you need us…"_

"_You made my brother change John. In to someone I think he himself preferred. For that I thank you."_

* * *

><p>"We're here mate, that's twelve pounds…" John was shaken from his day dream but the taxi he was sat in coming to abrupt stop.<p>

"Thanks…" He handed over the money and slowly got out of the car. He cane in hand. He watched the taxi drive away and head back towards the heart of city.

It was so quiet there. Nothing but the rain, the birds, his footsteps. So very, very peaceful.

The gate creaked loudly as he pushed it open, his hand beginning to tremble as it did whenever he made this journey.

The gravelled foot path crunched beneath him until he finally came to a standstill near an old oak tree.

The gravestone before him stood as brilliantly as it had the day it had been placed in the ground. The many flowers adorned it, along with the cards left by people John had never met.

_We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

_Moriarty was real._

_Richards Brooks was a liar!_

Since his last visit the previous week new bouquets had been placed. He suspected Mycroft or Mrs Hudson. Either way he was grateful to those who took it upon themselves to keep the place bright and tidy.

He slowly settled himself on the grass and ignored the dampness seeping though his clothes.

"I saw you again today," he murmured, letting his fingers graze the flowers before him. "I really think I'm losing in Sherlock. I know you aren't there. You here, underneath all this… I don't know why my mind can't accept it. I guess I just don't want the adventure to be over." He stifled a sob, instead turning it into a bitter sweet laugh. "Because that's what you where Sherlock Holmes. You where an adventure. You gave me life again. Made me want to wake up in the morning because something amazing was bound to happen! If you saw me now the boredom would probably radiate from me and make you go insane." He sighed and stared up at the sky. "I think I may be going a little insane." He paused and stared at the headstone as if it where the eyes of the man he cared so much about. "You where my miracle Sherlock. And I know one miracle is enough for a life time and I know I ask you this all the time and am very selfish in doing so but…" He placed a hand against the wet, cool marble and smiled weakly. "One more. Just for me. Yeah?" There was silence, the rain around him speaking no answers. He sat back and sighed. "You always where a stubborn bastard."

He stayed sat in that place for what seemed like forever, picking up cards and realising what had been written. It was probably a good thing Sherlock never knew how many fans he had, the thought would properly cause him to force John to close his blog.

It was then he saw it. The plain navy envelope. He slowly reached out and picked up, pulling open the flap and pulling the card from it. The card itself was the shame shade as the envelope and completely blank. No image. No words. Just plain, deep blue.

He slowly opened it and paused.

He froze and felt his face crumble. His tears joined the rain and began to melt the letters from the card.

Five words where written within it.

Five words that, for some reason, made John get up and head towards the road to find a taxi. Five words that made him feel a little stronger then he had before.

_I believe in John Watson._

* * *

><p>He soon found himself changing into dry clothes and placing the navy card on the mantel piece. Perhaps whoever had written it could motivate him to actually get his life into something resembling order. He lit the fire in the fire place and allowed himself to sink into his arm chair, his hair slowly drying by the heat. He placed his cane by his side and picked up his book, turning to the page he'd marked and beginning to read.<p>

As the fire slowly died out his eyes became heavy and soon the book fell, open, against his chest as his hands went limp and sleep over took him.

It was dreamless. No nightmares attacked his vision and ripped him awake. No images of guns, of death, of falling…

It was all very peaceful.

The grandfather clock struck midnight and slowly stirred him awake. The first thing he noticed was how the drizzle of rain outside had formed into a thunder storm that rattled the building with each screeching blast of noise. The second thing he noticed was that the fire was out, leaving the room cold and causing him to sleepily shiver. Thirdly he noticed the eyes. The eyes watching him in the chair opposite. He was back, watching him curiously with a stranger than usual expression on his face. John peered back as well for a moment. Then he smiled, a small delicate.

"This really has to stop," he whispered sadly, grabbing his cane and moving into the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on and leant against the work surface, watching as the man he imagined to be in that arm chair stood and never once took his eyes from him. The doctor made himself a cup of tea and placed it on the kitchen table. He wandered over to the living room window and pulled the curtains shut, desperately trying to stop the lighting from temporarily blinding him.

All the while the apparition of Sherlock watched with his imaginary hands stuffed into the imaginary pockets of his trousers.

On the desk Johns mobile rang, but he ignored it. Not truly wanting to speak to anyone at that moment in time. Still, Sherlock watched him. It was… odd.

The doctor wandered over to the fire place and chucked another log on, trying to restart the flames that had died earlier. Soon it was warm once more and he settled back into the seat as Sherlock did the same.

"You know," he said, taking note this was the first time he'd addressed the man his mind had created. "My therapist once asked me if I could say anything to you what would it be? But it never needed to be said, did it. It was known. It was fact. Hell, you know everything about a person. You knew didn't you?" Sherlock didn't move, just stared. "That's one of the things I cherished about you. I never had to say anything. You just knew. It made life so much easier. I've never been good at expressing myself. Probably the army training. But still… You knew." Silence hung in the warm air thickly. "You always knew…"

There was a shrill banging at the door that caused John to jump slightly. He grabbed his cane and made his way over to it, taking note of the time and fearing some sort of emergency. He unlocked it and pulled it open to meet the concerned faces of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

"Greg? Mrs Hudson? What's the matter?" Lestrade ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed.

"I got this text message…. I mean, it could all be a sick joke but it's just… I had to make sure…."

"A text message? Saying what exactly?"

"It just said to get here as soon as possible. But it was from…" Suddenly the inspector froze, his face turned very pale and his phone fell from his hand. "Bloody hell…"

Mrs Hudson allowed a small scream to escape her lips before raising a hand to cover her own mouth.

Slowly, John turned to see what they were staring at with such looks of disbelief. In the middle of the room, his hands tucked into his pockets and a look of caution on his face was Mr Sherlock Holmes.

John froze, his cane falling from his grip as he clung to the door frame. His face changed into a spectacular shade of white as he turned to his to his guests.

"You… You can see him to?"

The room erupted into a silence that could have been cut with a knife as John turned back to the friend he long thought dead.

"You're… really here?" It was only now he truly took in the man's appearance. His hair was dripping with rain; he suit patched with dampness and, on the leather sofa where three years ago it was always placed, was a long, navy coat. "This isn't real…."

"John…" That voice. The one he'd longed to hear say his name for so long…

"No! You don't talk! You never talk! You appear, I think I'm losing my mind, and then you vanish! That's how it works!"

"John, I'm really here. This time it's really me."

"But… You're dead Sherlock… I saw you die!"

"You saw," he said, taking a cautious step forward. "What you expected to see."

John stayed silent for a moment, wanting to punch the man before him in the face so hard that a trip to A&E would be on the cards. Instead he did what he'd wanted to do for so long. He allowed silent tears to run down his cheeks as he slowly and silently walked forward and buried his face in the detective chest.

"Sherlock…"

"I'm here John." Lestrade and Mrs Hudson peered at each other before slowly shutting the door and making their ways downstairs for a cup cake and mug of tea.

"I'm so angry right now…"

"I know."

"Of course you do."

They stayed like that, Sherlock's arms encasing the doctor close to his chest as, outside, the wind blew and the sky wailed and screamed.

"How do I know this isn't all a dream? A wonderful, bloody awful dream?" Sherlock chuckled lightly and placed a hand on the doctor's head.

"Because John, my arms are around you. Because I'm stood here. And because I promise you I will never willingly leave your side ever again." He took a step back and peered at the doctors shattered expression. "Because I'm here, saying that, Doctor John Hamish Watson of 221B Baker street, I am sincerely and truly sorry for what you have been through these past three years."

John just peered at him in amazement. He was convinced that a person would only be allowed one miracle in their lifetime. But before him stood the proof…. The proof that he must be a very special case. He'd been granted his two miracles.

"You're back?"

"I am." John nodded and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jumper."You're limp came back?"

"Yeah, just when you thought it couldn't get any bloody worse I only go and get the bloody limp back." There was silence once more. "Why Sherlock?"

"To protect you. To protect all of you."

"From who?"

"Who do you think?"

"Moriarty…"

"Indeed, it appears even in death he has his ways of destroying everything and everyone I care about. The only way to save you all was to die. To die and then take care of his web. I had to destroy every part of it before I could come back. Before I could home."

"So we're safe now?"

"It would appear so…"

John nodded and peered up at the detective.

"One day you're going to tell me how you died…"

"I shall. But not right now." He pulled the doctor closer to his chest and buried his face in the sandy hair.

"What you said earlier John… You were right. I always knew. That's why it was so important to keep you safe. But I suppose we aren't truly the types to make declarations of affection. It doesn't seem appropriate for us."

John silently nodded against his chest.

"But I feel at this time it is appropriate to state that if you had my level of deductive abilities one glance at me would have told you…" He leaned back and stared at the doctors face. "I appear to find myself holding an extreme level of affection towards you. Not that it needs to be said."

John felt the smile on his before he realised his brain was telling him to do so.

"Good to know."In silence the detective leant forward and lightly brushed his lips over the doctors, causing the sandy haired man to gasp and his arms to limp by his side. His eyes slowly shut just as the detective pulled away. They snapped open and peered up at his flat mate with a curious gaze.

"John Hamish Watson… The thought of you is what kept me going for these years. When I was living under a bridge in Paris… When I found myself with a gun to my head in Peru… All I thought of was you. Do you know why?" John shook he head slowly. Sherlock leant forward until his lips where by his ear and murmured five words.

"I believe in John Watson."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Hope you enjoyed this. Let me know what you think.<em>**

**_GOTM x_**


End file.
